Guileless Son
by WitchcraftAndTrickery
Summary: Morgana was always been drawn to Mordred. Only she knew truly why. He could never know. Neither could Mordred. - A slightly AU reselling of Merlin, following a different interpretation of the legends. Rated for sex references. Title is from Mordred's Lullaby by Heather Dale.-


_**This idea came to me one day after listening to Heather Dale's 'Mordred's Lullaby'. In some interpretations of the Arthur legends, Mordred is the result of an unwittingly incestuous affair between Arthur and Morgan Le Fay. I wondered how this would affect the Merlin continuity if it were the line they followed.**_

_**Rated for allusions to sex, and the title is a reference to the Heather Dale song mentioned above. I don't own anything; I just play with the characters.**_

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**You Are The Proof**

_Guileless son, your spirit shall hate her  
The flower who married my brother the traitor  
And you will reveal his puppeteer behaviour,  
For you are the proof of how her betrayed her loyalty.  
- 'Mordred's Lullaby', Heather Dale_

Morgana stumbled blindly through the forest, moving blindly. She didn't care where she went. She just had to leave Camelot. She had to be as far away from there as her legs could take her.

Her foot suddenly caught on a root, and she fell forward, arms extending to break her fall, closing her eyes in expectation of a hard landing – her hands found tree bark, rough yet welcome, and she leaned against the trunk, panting. Her chest rose and fell heavily beneath the thick woollen cloak as she tried to breathe normally.

There was no time to rest, however. She needed to move. The further she was from the citadel when her disappearance was discovered, the better – the safer – she would be. She nodded to herself as her feet started moving again. Yes. The better they would all be. The image of Arthur came unbidden to her mind, and Morgana's breath hitched. No. This was why she was running.

It hadn't been meant to happen.

_Ale. Wine. Laughter. The day had been merry one, and the night is shaping up to be similar. He has drank too much. Her own head is spinning slightly as the knight she speaks with smiles suggestively. Then his eye catches hers. Blue. Green. Blonde. Black. It has been mentioned before, but Uther always refuses. But now the great leader of Camelot is guffawing drunkenly at the high table, and has no eyes for his son or his ward._

Morgana's breath was coming in laboured, ragged gasps, now, and her legs were shaking uncontrollably beneath her. She had to go on. She couldn't stop. She considered if magic would will away her weariness. No. She couldn't rely on that. Not yet. She stopped, her hand on her furiously beating heart, and slumped to the leaf strewn earth. Her back ached against the wizened tree she leaned on, and her lungs burned as they scrambled for air.

Her eyes closed, occasional flashes of yellow and blue lighting the darkness behind her eyelids.

Yellow and blue.

_Smile. Glance. Touch. He is near her, now, his gaze somewhat unfocussed but trained on her. Her face, her figure, her expression. She replies by sweeping her eyes across the bulk beneath the linen shirt, the lines of sinew and corded muscle in his arms. Wide shoulders, narrow hips. She has watched them being created in the training grounds, in the forests. She wonders how she appears to him._

_Whisper. Nod. Hand. She finds herself being led away from the merriment, strong fingers over slender ones, both stumbling over the wine they drink as they go. Stairs. Climb. Fall. Her knee hurts. He turns, chuckles, picks her up as if she were a doll, as he has done so many time when they were children. Now it is different. Now they are grown up, adult, mature. The velvet tongue of merry-making has hissed seductively into their ears, filling their heads with foreign, hazy thoughts, too obscure for reality. But reality does not matter, for this moment is a net, and the two are embracing the tangled mess in which they wind themselves._

Morgana wondered, briefly, how long she had been running for. An hour? Maybe two? The pains still came, but they had been coming for hours, and she could hold them back yet. She wasn't far enough away.

You never will be, her mind muttered, hopelessly. She opened her eyes, squinting into the distance. There wasn't much forest left, and then she'd be far enough away to slow her pace. But that was still a few miles, and after that -. She needed to be much further. Her fatigued limbs pushed her to stand as a stifled hiss escaped her lips. Not yet. She had to run.

_Lips. Heat. Skin. The linen shirt is now draped haphazardly across the bedframe, and her hands explore the caverns and plains of muscle that lay beneath. His own fingers, calloused and leathery, so different to her own, trace patterns on her flesh, feather light and burning. Hiss. Gasp. Breathe. This is wicked and wonderful, eternally wrong yet momentarily so very right. An illusion of ecstasy, sewn together with wine and victory, yet an illusion that blinds the mind._

_Eyes. Arms. Cold. He pushes himself away, those arms she cherished moments ago rising from her. His icy eyes are hazy, groggy, and she knows that he will not remember this in the morning. She will remember. How can she forget? Alone. Shiver. Tear. The shirt is gone from the end of the bed. She lies in the remnants of his warmth, holding a sheet to her nakedness like a child gripping a blanket on a stormy night._

A slim snake of smoke trailed into the greying sky. Morgana almost sobbed in relief as she saw it beyond a few trees. She couldn't hold much longer. She stumbled through the leaves, roots, stones, until she reached the clearing, vision clouded with tears.

It was small enough to be concealed, but large enough to hold around twenty people, from what Morgana could see. They were cloaks, and several small tents were set up around the edges. As they saw her, they seemed to stop instantaneously. _Gypsies?_ Morgana wondered, irrationally. _Travellers? Mercians?_

"That's Uther Pendragon's girl," came a cautious murmur from somewhere among them. Morgana fell to her knees with a whimper as a young woman approached her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, hooking a finger under Morgana's chin and tilting her head up to look her in the eye. "She looks ill."

"Please…." mumbled Morgana, pathetically. She pulled aside her cloak to reveal the servant's dress she'd stolen, and the swollen stomach beneath. "I – I need –" She stopped, gasping in pain as something burned inside her.

"By the Gods," whispered the woman. "Get her to the Healer."

"But she's –"

"Now!"

* * *

Morgana blinked slowly as the world came back into view. She was in a tent. It was dark green, and strange lights floated in the corners. Floated…?

She looked around, remembering. She had been fighting to push the child out of her. The old healer had coaxed her, shouted at her, calmed her. Morgana had screamed, cried, bitten, and when it was over, felt overwhelmed by the child sleeping in her arms.

Where was he now? She sat up hastily, and the world spun – a gentle, wrinkled hand landed on her brow, soothingly. It was the old woman who had birthed her child. She smiled at Morgana, her wizened face crinkling, dark eyes sparkling.

"Where –" began Morgana, but the woman shushed her softly.

"Brona has him," she whispered. "You needed rest." Morgana looked up at the healer, wondering, for the first time, why she had helped her. "You are closer to us than you might think," explained the woman, as if she had somehow heard her thoughts. "And Brona is not a woman to turn away any in need."

Morgana noticed the sturdy young woman who had greeted her standing behind the healer. Her light hair, streaked with grey, was pulled away from her face, a swirling, triangular black tattoo visible of her throat. _Druids_, Morgana realised. The woman – Brona – smiled, and lifted her arms. There was a small bundle lying in them. "He's awake," she said, smiling. "If you want to see him."

Morgana nodded eagerly. "Yes – Yes, I want to see him."

Chuckling, Brona leant and tucked the bundle into her outstretched arms, making sure that his head was leant against Morgana's chest. "There," she sighed. "Your son."

A strange feeling of awe came over Morgana as she watched him. He was really there. Her son. Her looked like her, she supposed, and she smiled disbelievingly. Dark curls covered his head, just like her own. He blinked up at her, with almost a recognition flashing in his little eyes. Eyes that were so blindingly blue. _Like Arthur's_.

Fear suddenly clenched in her chest. Arthur.

This was Arthur's son.

Arthur was…. _Her brother_.

Uther had never told them. Never told anyone of his affair with Morgana's mother, never told anyone of her and Arthur's blood bond, and it had led to this. He had told them a few months after Morgana discovered the child growing inside her, and it had sickened her to the core. She had created the story of an illness, something contagious, to hide the knowledge and the signs. So she had ran at the first sign of her term ending, a mixture of acidic hatred and aching compassion for her half-brother

She looked up at Brona and the healer, their smiles seeming oddly out of place. Struggling to her feet – someone had put her in a new dress – she pushed the baby into Brona's arms.

"But – "

"Please," asked Morgana, her eyes flicking from her son to the Druid woman. "Take care of him."

"But –"

"Please!" begged Morgana, tears filling her eyes. "I – I can't…" She kissed her son's head with shaking lips as grief threatened to spill from her in sobs. "It wouldn't be safe for him…. He'll be better, never knowing who I am."

The Druid women looked helplessly at each other.

"Raise him as one of your own," she pleaded, combing his dark hair back with her fingers. "And…. Keep him safe."

Brona took her hand. "I'll raise him like my own son. Cerdan and I…"

Morgana nodded. "Thank you."

She stumbled from the tent, not bringing herself to look back. She wouldn't burden the child with his lineage. Not when –

"Wait!"

Morgana looked down, not trusting herself to turn and see her hours old son in another woman's arms. "Yes?"

"What is his name?"

Morgana smiled, sadly. Yes, that was right. She should at least name him. Something of hers, that she could give to him. "Name him Mordred," she called, the tears that had been rising finally spilling over onto her cheeks. "Mordred," she repeated under her breath, as she walked away.

Her conscience hoped that he would never see her again. Her heart yearned for the day when she would see him as a grown man.

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_**The ending was a bit rushed, and I'm not entirely happy with the second part, so this may be rewritten at some point.**_

_**I might continue exploring this AU if I have time, so I hope you all enjoy and that you aren't too repulsed by the backstory :S Please leave a review, I'd like to know how I can make this into a better story!**_

_**~Witchcraft**_


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